


For when you start to miss me,

by dreadpiratewatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And I really hope someone cries, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Boys In Love, Captain John Watson, Declarations Of Love, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, I Will Go Down With This Ship, John Loves Sherlock, John in Afghanistan, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Love Letters, M/M, Minor Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock is a Mess, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Uni!lock, basically just a lot of fluff, fluffy fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6378196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what to expect from a letter from his soldier boyfriend overseas, but he knew that he was slightly afraid of it. He was afraid this letter would make him worse, that it would make him feel more alone. The letter could do that. Or, it could make him feel better. That was worse. Was that worse? To feel better with John gone? Was it better to not feel like he couldn't breathe with John so far away? Was that truly worse? </p><p>Sherlock wasn't sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For when you start to miss me,

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I'm back with another fluffy fic! I came up with this at like three in the morning when I couldn't sleep and was reading really emotional fanfiction, and this is the product of that. 
> 
> Also, for those of you who are waiting for another chapter of Dance, I'm working on the reunion chapter, and I want it to be perfect, so it's been taking a while, but it should be up soon once I make it good. So don't worry about that. ^^
> 
> And as always, I love you all, and I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> -Stevie

The day John Watson left for Afghanistan, he made Sherlock promise him that he would be kind to himself.

Sherlock, of course had rolled his eyes, but in the end, his heart has hit his rib cage at the sight of John in his military fatigues, holding all of his bags, ready to board a plane that would take his boyfriend from him for God knew how how long. He didn't cry, he had promised himself that much, not even when John hugged him one last time before walking to his gate. Sherlock had memorized what his arms felt like, just for when the nights alone became too much. He had watched John grab his bags and walk down his gate with the others, and it had taken everything Sherlock had to not run down the gate like some sort of big airport proposal like they always did in the films.

One of the military wives, a young girl who was barely older than Sherlock, had come over and introduced herself as Sam, then offered to take him for a drink. He had agreed, which he rarely did, but he needed to. They didn't talk throughout their drink, but when the time came, they had hugged, and parted ways. 

It wasn't until Sherlock made it home that he saw the letter. 

It hadn't been there before, so it had to have been left before he and John went to the airport. It wasn't anything special, just a plain envelope placed up against Billy the Skull, like the skull was holding onto it for safe keeping. Sherlock crossed the room and took the letter from Billy, and almost laughed at the scrawled out message on the front in John's awful handwriting. It wasn't addressed to him, instead, it bore seven words that were just so utterly John it made him almost want to roll his eyes.  _For when you start to miss me,_ the letter said. 

 _I already miss you, you idiot._ Sherlock thought bitterly, then placed the letter back up against the skull. He didn't want to read it now. 

**_________________**

For weeks, the letter went ignored. 

**_________________**

_For when you start to miss me._

The words played over and over and over in his head for almost two months, in John's voice, whenever he got anywhere close to forgetting that John was gone. 

**_________________**

_For when you start to miss me._

That was just the thing. 

Sherlock was trying  _not_ to miss John. 

He was trying very, very hard, in fact, to not miss John. He did other things to occupy his time, experiments with various body parts, crap telly, hanging out with Greg and Molly (who had finally gotten together, which he made a point to tell John in one of their Skype calls), a mass amount of reading, solving cold cases, even getting into shows that he didn't care for before, but now helped him kill the boredom. At least there were killings in Criminal Minds, though most of them were obvious. JJ reminded him of John. 

Sherlock did everything he could to not think about John during the time before their next Skype call, though the calls were always wonderful. 

"You've tanned." Sherlock told him one day when he saw his boyfriend, whose blonde hair was tousled and whose face was covered in dirt still from their day out. 

John had laughed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, but the moment I get home, I'll be just as chalky white as the rest of London." He replied. 

The comment made Sherlock's heart skip. "So, you're coming home soon?" 

"Soon." 

"You think you'll be home for Christmas?" 

John sighed, and avoided his boyfriend's eyes. "I'm not sure." 

 _Which is a no._ Sherlock told himself, then looked to the ground, finding nothing else to say. 

"Hey." 

John's voice went back to being soft and husky like he knew that Sherlock always loved, and it made him look up. 

His boyfriend offered him his signature grin. "You know I love you, right?" He asked. 

"Of course I do. I love you too." 

"You better." 

Sherlock's heart warmed. He loved when John said that. 

From somewhere off-screen, someone called to John, and Sherlock knew their time was up. The soldier let out a heavy sigh. "Hey, love, look-" 

"You've got to go. I know." Sherlock finished for him, trying not to sound sad. "It's okay. Go do good."

John laughed. "Is that what I'm doing?" 

"I'm fairly certain that's exactly what your job description said." 

"Alright, you berk, I've got to go. I'll talk to you in a few days, alright?" 

Sherlock nodded. 

"I love you." 

"I love you too." 

"Night, love." 

"Goodbye." 

When the screen went black, Sherlock sighed, and fell back against the sofa. The flat seemed almost too quiet now that John's voice wasn't filling it. He missed him already. 

He passed a hand over his face, and looked up toward the mantel where the letter still sat against Billy the Skull. After four months, he still hadn't read it. John never mentioned it, and neither did he. He had been actively avoiding that letter, though, it was days like this, right after a Skype call when the loneliness crept up from the walls and the floorboards of 221B Baker Street and engulfed him in. He hadn't been alone like this since before he met John Watson. 

Even when they met as teenagers, back when John was a rugby player and Sherlock was the nerdy kid who liked violin and ballet and chemistry, John Watson never let Sherlock Holmes believe he was alone. From that first day as chemistry partners, when Sherlock was awkward and nervous and 'Just Sherlock, not William, William is gross' and John was busy cracking jokes, to the night their school decided to have an Americanized formal and call it prom when they both stagged and got way too drunk for their own good and ended up staying up the whole night watching movies, to the first time they kissed, lying out on Sherlock's roof in the middle of summer, drinking beer and watching the stars, John Watson was always there. He never let Sherlock feel alone. 

Sherlock never thought that John's deployment would hit him this hard. 

Before John Watson, he had taken such great pleasure in being alone. But, now that he didn't have to be, it was harder than ever to learn again. 

**_________________**

Before going to bed that night, Sherlock took one more look at the letter, and shook his head before closing the door to his bedroom, and ignoring it once again. 

**_________________**

John didn't make it home for Christmas, and Sherlock didn't bother decorating. He turned down every offer to go out and spend time with anyone.

Even on Christmas Day, when the boredom and loneliness came back to haunt him, he ignored the letter. 

**_________________**

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had run so fast. 

He had been working in the lab when he realized that the clock on the wall had stopped working, and was now rushing home to try to make his Skype call with John. His heart was pounding, and his converse were completely soaked through, but he couldn't be bothered with that. He needed to see John. His boyfriend hadn't made it home for Christmas, and their last Skype call had gotten cut short, and now he was running late... He felt like he hadn't talked to John in months. He had to hurry. He didn't want to check his phone, out of fear of seeing that he was too late. 

Without saying hello to Mrs. Hudson, he threw open the door of Baker Street and ran up to the seventeen steps to the flat that he and John shared. His laptop was on the sofa where he had left it this morning, but when he went to turn it on, he found it was dead. Cursing under his breath, he ran into their old bedroom and all but yanked the charger out of the wall, then rushed back to plug it in. The laptop, of course, was ridiculously slow turning on. With every passing second, Sherlock felt himself growing more and more anxious over how much time he had already lost with John. 

Finally, his laptop turned back on, and he went right for Skype, his heart already pounding in anticipation. All he wanted to do was see John.

Molly, who was doing an internship at the morgue, had tried to sympathize with him earlier in the day, but having a police officer for a boyfriend was a lot different than having a soldier for a boyfriend. At least Greg was still home for Christmas, and didn't miss anniversaries because he was off saving the world. It was very different. 

**John Watson is Offline**

The words stuck him like a punch to the chest. 

Swallowing hard, he looked down at the time in the bottom corner of his screen.

6:14. 

He had missed John's time by nearly thirty minutes. 

Feeling like his whole world was about to stop, Sherlock leaned back against the arm of the sofa and pushed the laptop off of his knees. He had never missed John's call before. He had always been on time, early even, just waiting for him to come online finally so that he could see him, but the one time he needed him more than ever, he had missed him. 

Sherlock wanted to be angry. He wanted to blame someone, the maintenance people for not fixing the clock, the traffic for not stopping quick enough, the people who built Bart's for not building it closer, the army for not allowing John more time, anyone he could be angry at silently. But, in the end, he knew it was his fault, and there was no one to blame but himself. He wondered if John was mad at him for missing it. 

The idea of John being angry at him for that was enough to make him feel nauseous. He gritted his teeth, clamping down on the bitter cold that is spreading across his chest at a rapid pace, and for a moment, he wanted to trash the flat from top to bottom. Thick, blistering hatred for everything in his path suddenly overtook him, until he looked up and saw the letter resting on the mantel. The letter he had ignored for months. 

 _If ever there was a time, it's probably now, before you hurt yourself._ John's voice in his head told him gently. 

"Fine." He said out loud, though he knew no one could hear him.  

Sherlock crossed the room as slowly as he could and picked up the letter, turning it over and over in his hands. He didn't know what to expect from it, was it going to be funny? Was it going to be sad? Was it going to make him feel the gentle warmth in his heart again like he had felt when they first met? Or the butterflies that kept him up at three in the morning so he could text John 'just a little bit longer'? He wasn't sure exactly what to expect from a letter from his boyfriend overseas, but he knew that he was slightly afraid of it. He was afraid this letter would make him worse. It would make him feel more alone. The letter could do that.

Or, it could make him feel better. That was worse. 

Was that worse? To feel better with John gone? Was it better to  _not_ feel like he couldn't breathe with John so far away?  _Was_ that truly worse? 

Sherlock wasn't sure. 

Shaking his head, Sherlock took the letter over to John's chair and sat down in it (the first time he had done so in months), and with shaking hands, tore carefully at the flap. He thought about it, John writing this letter, gliding his tongue across the sticky glue, then hiding it until it was time to leave it for Sherlock to find. Had John spent nights thinking about what exactly he would say in the letter before actually writing it down? Or had he known exactly what he wanted to say? When had he even had time to write it? He made a mental note to ask, but quickly deleted it. 

At first glance, the letter was nothing special. It was handwritten, as he had suspected, but it wasn't written on fancy parchment or in anything less than John's messy handwriting, which he had come to adore. Slowly, he opened up the folded letter, and began to read. "Sherlock," It began,

_I know you're probably reading this, sulking on the sofa or in your chair, being bored, and normally I would nag you about it, but I know this whole thing has been really tough on you. It's been tough on me too, leaving you, but it's what I signed up for when I joined the army, and I'm helping a lot of people. Even you can't be upset about that. I know you miss me, and I miss you too, but I don't want you to miss me too much until I come home._

_I keep telling them about you, all of my mates here, they know all about you, the gorgeous bloke who stole my heart years ago, and they tease me, but they all tell me they wish they could find a love like that. Like us. Bill Murray calls us 'the best love story since the Notebook'. I've never seen that movie, and I never plan to, but apparently it's a pretty good romance. I disagree with him though, us being the perfect love story and all, but that's what I love about us. We were never a perfect love story, we weren't even a good one. We were always too goofy, too open, too weird. We fought about body parts in the fridge, or whatever experiment you were working on, and it allowed us to be ourselves. I remember you warning me that that would be the death of us, but I told you that it's what made us good together. I still believe that, even today. Because no matter what you think about us, or what anyone else says, at the end of the day, you're the person I want to come home to, the person I want to rant to about my shitty day, or the person I want to sit in a comfortable silence with in the evening. You make me feel alive, every single day and I want to share everything with you, my happiness, my anger, my heart, my life... If you'll have me of course, but that's up to you._

_Do you remember when we were up on the roof that night, and I told you I loved you and you asked me why? Remember how I told you because I had a weakness for tall blokes with awful names. You laughed. I mean you really,_ really  _laughed. Your eyes got all bright and you let me kiss you again after you called me a moron, and I fell in love with you just a little bit more. You didn't ask me again, but I thought about that night a lot, because I never really gave you an answer, and you deserved one, and I truly believe that you couldn't always see it for yourself. I could be lame and say that I loved everything, and it wouldn't be a lie, but if you want the long answer, and I'm sure you do, I have it. I love the small things you do. I love the way you read about neurotoxins on your phone while we're laying in bed, and how excited you always get, even though I have no idea what you were excited about. Or the way you call Mrs. Turner's cat beautiful whenever I accidentally step on her tail because she walks under my feet, or the rose tea you sometimes drink after ballet that smells really weird but you love, so I keep buying. I always love how focused you always are when you work, with the adorable crinkle of your eyebrows and the slight lock of your jaw though your hands were always calm and steady. Even when you mixed chemicals you looked like you were dancing. Oh, God... How I love your dancing. The way you turn in the kitchen on the tile floor in your socks, and occasionally stumble into the counter when you used too much force, or the random leaps you do that are light enough to barely shake the china... You're always so graceful, even when you stumble. You would make a swan envious. I love that you're a beautiful person inside and out, and my only regret is that I told you sooner, because maybe then you would have believed me._

_I know you don't believe me sometimes when I say that I love you, I see it in your eyes, even when you smile back at me. Maybe it's because when you told me once that you didn't understand the point of love, you never got over that, or maybe it's because you think you aren't worth it, but I want you to know that whatever it is, you're wrong. I don't know what happened to you to make you believe anything like that, but no matter what you think of yourself, I love you, and nothing about that will change, even when I'm old and grey and can't remember most things, I'll still remember that. You will always be the best thing that's ever happened to me._

_In the end, if you want the sort answer, I love everything about you, everything you come with, and everything you leave behind, and I don't ever want you to forget it._

_I told you this letter was for when you really started to miss me, and I don't know when that is, but I hope that after reading this, it's a little bit better. I promise I'll be home soon, but in the mean time, remember that night on the roof, and pretend like I wasn't an idiot._

_I love you, William 'Just Sherlock' Scott Holmes._

_-John_

Sherlock didn't realize there were tears rolling down his face until one of the droplets fell down onto the page. 

He sat there for a moment, smiling like an idiot and allowing himself to cry, allowing himself to miss John, because he had been right before. It was easier to be by himself now that he misses John, but has something of his to help himself cope. He finds himself suddenly laughing, and he takes a moment to brush at the wetness in his eyes. 

He silently thanked John for the letter. It made it easier to breathe. He may be without John for now, but for now, the letter is enough. 

Sherlock was so deep in thought that he didn't hear the familiar heavy footsteps on the stairs, nor did he realize someone was there until the door was swinging open. 

"Sherlock?" 

He looked up, and his mouth went dry as the letter fell to the ground. 


End file.
